JOYCE'S DUBLIN
lOS
ball process by which antidotes (anecdotes?), criticism, quotations gather
round their names; mention it and a member of a group in a pub or
sitting-room will have something new to contribute." So by a typical
Irish twist, my brother becomes responsible for the cock-and-bull stories
they tell about him in Dublin pubs.
Patricia Hutchins, besides much sympathetic criticism and diligent
research, has sharked up indiscriminately quite a number of these "trivial,
fond records." In a study so devoted to detail, the dates at least should
be right, but too often they are not. The authoress says that my father
moved to 23 Castlewood Avenue in 1885. It is not of the smallest im–
portance to anyone, but it is not accurate. I was born at that address in
1884. Similarly my father moved to Bray not later than in 1888. He
lost his position through the closing down of his department, sold what
was left of his property, and the rapid downhill slide to almost abject
poverty began when we left Blackrock for Dublin, not later. And so
on.
It
is more serious, however, when Patricia Hutchins reports, speak–
ing of the family of Mr. David Sheehy, M.P.: "It seems that Joyce
was often given a shakedown in the drawing-room after a party there,
and on occasions Mrs. Sheehy even mended his socks and had his
shirt washed, lending him one of her sons' in the meantime."
We lived at about ten minutes' easy walking from the house of Mr.
Sheehy, and sometimes we used to go there-for I was bracketed in
the invitation--on Sunday evenings, as all the members of the family
had their several engagements during the week. Why in the world
should my brother sleep there? And is it usual for the wives of mem–
bers of Parliament in Ireland to darn socks and have shirts washed on
Sunday evenings when they have guests? Could the inventor of this
story not manage to give it a greater air of probability?
Another story, which seems to originate from the present rector of
Belvedere College, is that my brother was given his breakfast and, ac–
cording to another report, his dinner there when he frequented the
school.
It
is difficult to qualify politely a statement so little in ac–
cordance with the facts. My brother and I went to Belvedere together,
and I remained there after my brother had gone to the University. It
is very strange that though I was almost three years younger than my
brother, I was never included in these meals, nor did any member of
the family ever know anything about them. Although secrecy was
never his forte, and I shared his life then day by day and hour by hour,
now at almost sixty-seven years of age I hear of these things for the first
time from Patricia Hutchins. The only breakfast I ever had at Belvedere
